


all of the while, it was you

by bethycupcake



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Cliche, F/M, Fluff, SO MUCH Cliche, artist!amy, author!jake, basically they become each other's muses, bc who doesn't love angst, but we all need a little cliche every now and then, its pretty much one whole cliche, there'll probably be some angst thrown in there too, they're captivated by each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-02 21:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10952916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethycupcake/pseuds/bethycupcake
Summary: He wrote the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating particularly hard on a sketch, how her lipstick left faint print marks on the edge of her white coffee cup, the way she tucks her hair behind both ears every now and then. He wrote how the light hit her hair just so, or how she fiddled with the pendant around her neck whenever she appeared to be deep in thought, or the way she looked around the room – inquisitive, as if hungry for knowledge. He suddenly felt like he knew her already.





	1. Jake

**Author's Note:**

> I'm honestly not 100% sure where I'm going with his but hey, here it is.  
> It's largely inspired by a prompt I saw online, where person A is a writer and ends up basing a character on person B, who they met in a coffee shop. So I kind of ran with it and this happened.  
> Anyways enjoy!  
> Title from Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop by Landon Pigg.

It was two weeks after Jake moved to Brooklyn when he first saw her.

As cliché as it sounds, his whole world seemed to tilt on its axis, and time slowed, the usual bustle of the coffee shop drowned out as if he were underwater. (He would berate himself, later, for how sappy he sounded and wondered how on earth he managed to become a bestselling author when his life is just one cliché rom-com movie.)

She sat at a table on her own, in the far corner, glossy black hair forming a curtain at the side of her face closest to the wall as she read, large glasses with almost clear frames perched on her nose. There was a pile of more books sat on the top of her table, what looked to be a sketchbook at the base and several novels sat on top, her – presumably empty – coffee cup pushed to the side.

“What can I get you, sir?” Jake vaguely registered the barista asking him what he wanted, but he just stood, transfixed. “Sir, are you alright?”

“Huh?” Jake snapped out of his daze, turning back to the counter and pushing his glasses further up his nose where they had slipped slightly. “Oh, yeah uh, medium mocha please,” he mumbled, attempting to filter through his jumble of thoughts to find his usual order. He handed the barista the money for his drink and turned back towards where he had seen the beautiful woman with olive skin.

He picked up his drink with a mumbled “thank you” and went to sit sown, bypassing his regular table next to the floor-to-ceiling window (the optimal spot for people-watching), instead opting for a table three away from where she sat, facing towards her and the back of the shop. Jake settled into his seat, opening his laptop onto an empty Word document and sipping his drink, wincing as it scalded his tongue, and began to look around for inspiration.

He glanced over the regulars, looking for new customers to give him something new, but found his eyes constantly drifting back to her.

Jake had become a frequent customer to this coffee shop in the weeks he had spent in Brooklyn, having become enraptured with the diversity of the customer base. Your usual hipster-types were there, of course, but there were so many others; young, old, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends, new friends… one of Jake’s favourite things to do was to create lives for them, how they know the people they’re with, what brought them to that particular coffee shop on that particular day. The process came easy to him, allowing his imagination to run wild, thinking up extravagant stories of undercover cops and secret agents and criminals on the run (he had a strange obsession with cops, or at least how they were portrayed in movies. Especially _Die Hard_ ), though he rarely used these ideas in his actual writing.

But with her it was different.

Every scenario that he conjured up never seemed good enough – too elaborate, too excessive – to suit her properly.

So, instead, he just wrote what he saw. He wrote the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating particularly hard on a sketch, how her lipstick left faint print marks on the edge of her white coffee cup, the way she tucks her hair behind both ears every now and then, the words flowing from his brain and through his fingers onto the screen in front of him. The words appeared before him, seemingly without his input, as he slowly but surely created this… character.

Every so often he would pause his writing and nonchalantly bring his drink to his lips or stretch, taking the opportunity to look at his surroundings and not-so-discreetly at her. Every time he would, she’d be concentrating on her sketchbook, leaning against the table, the end on her lap, tilted away from him. And every time she paused her sketching and looked as if she were about to look up, he averted his gaze back to his laptop, pretending to be engrossed.

And then he’d pick up on another detail about her, like how the light hit her hair _just so_ , or how she fiddled with the pendant around her neck whenever she appeared to be deep in thought, or the way she looked around the room – inquisitive, as if hungry for knowledge – and that would be it, and he’d be off again.

Her story seemed to stem from her description; where she grew up, what siblings she had, what she majored in at college, her goals, her ambitions. He wondered, distantly, how much of it was true, how much he had guessed right. Because without ever having met her, he suddenly felt like he knew her already.

\---

Jake arrived at the coffee shop early the next morning, far earlier, surely, than any sane person would, hoping for the opportunity to see her again.

He had spent three hours there yesterday, his mind always on her, as he created a story for her without even really thinking, the words appearing before him, and without realising it, she had become the central fact of his story.

He ordered the same coffee as the day before, as always – mocha, like hot chocolate, with the added caffeine but without the bitterness of coffee Jake had always disliked – and went back to his table from yesterday.

Donning a fresh pair of eyes, Jake began to re-read what he had written yesterday, when his thought process was interrupted by the soft chime of the bell over the door, and he glanced over his shoulder to see… _her._ Her face was slightly flushed, as if she had been running, and she was digging frustratedly through her bag. Jake noticed the absence of her glasses, the way her hair was swept back into a neat ponytail, how he felt the sudden urge to smooth away the frown lines on her forehead.

After a few minutes of digging, her face lit up in a triumphant ‘a-ha!’ expression as she held up her purse, lifting her head up towards the blackboard behind the counter.

Jake whipped his head back round, wondering quickly just how long he had been staring as he attempted to resume his reading.  

He was interrupted again when he heard a light voice ask for a macchiato and it took all of his willpower to keep his eyes trained on his laptop screen instead of turning back around to look at her again.

A tinkle of laughter sounded as she chatted to the barista, and Jake couldn’t help but imagine the way her entire face lights up, crinkles forming at the sides of her eyes as she grins.

His eyes still trained to his laptop screen, though not actually taking any of the words in, he felt her presence beside him as she walked past. He chanced a glance towards her once she was past his table, coffee in hand, tote bag over her shoulder, the words “books are a uniquely portable magic” emblazoned on it in cursive font.

Jake suddenly caught a waft of coconut-scented air just as she began to sit down two tables away from him, facing the same way as the day before. He noticed, briefly, that her table was still empty behind her while she began to unpack her sketchbook, pencils, and two novels, opening a particularly battered copy of _Wuthering Heights_ to a bookmarked page.

After an hour or so, she would close the book she was reading (now _The Book Thief_ – she finished _Wuthering Heights_ about half an hour in – a book Jake was unfamiliar with but made a note of to look up later) and instead opened her sketchbook, working on two or three drawings over the remainder of the morning until 11:45 – on the dot, Jake noticed – when she packed up her books and pencils, deposited her empty coffee cup on the counter, called a cheery “thanks, bye!” to the barista, and left.

Jake pretended not to notice the way he felt a little greyer once she was gone.

\---

This routine continued on for about a week; Jake would arrive early, order his mocha and sit at the table three from the corner while he tried to get some real work done (it was near impossible once she arrived, because she was all he could think about when she was there). Then she would enter, at nine o’clock exactly, cheerful as always, ordered her macchiato and sat two tables away from him, despite the corner table always being free.

They would then spend close to three hours in their own little worlds, pretending not to notice the other’s presence before parting ways.

Jake had started being on time, always desperate to get there before she did, to feel her glide past him to her table.

It had become a new constant in his life, his mornings spent in the coffee shop, everyday spending time reading, writing and watching.

Until, one day, he didn’t.


	2. Amy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She found herself starting to draw, as best as she could with numerous heads between her and him, what she could see of his profile; she drew his sloping nose, the glasses perched on top, the mess of hair atop his head. She drew the way his hands clasped loosely around his coffee cup and brought it to his lips and the way the sides of his eyes crinkled when he laughed.
> 
> Half an hour later, she had filled her once blank page with… him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, i wanted to start off by saying thank you SO MUCH to everyone who commented and left kudos on chapter one; it really reassured me that the idea of this was good, and that you guys want to see more from this story.  
> So this chapter if from Amy's POV, kind of like the first chapter in that it has details of the first time she saw him etc.  
> I also tried to start incorporating some of the rest of the squad in here, so let me know if it works for you  
> Enjoy!

The first time Amy saw him, he was running late.

Or, he seemed to be, from what she could tell. His shirt was askew, the buttons in the wrong holes, his hair unkemped as he fiddled with his wallet while he waited in line.

He seemed restless, nervous even, and Amy was filled with that familiar curiosity to know what had gotten him riled up. She never got the chance to find out, though, because suddenly he was grabbing his drink from the counter, and then he was gone as quickly as he came.

\---

It was a good few weeks before she saw him again.

She was sat in her usual spot, in the far back corner, where she had a pretty great vantage point of the whole coffee shop, and was reading _Wuthering Heights_ (again) from her battered copy when he came in.

It was his laugh that had first drawn her attention to him; warm, bright and carefree. She glanced up from her book to find the source of the sudden warmth radiating through her, only to be greeted by the vaguely familiar brown hair and sloped nose from weeks before.

He appeared to be in less of a rush today, allowing her a little more time to get a better look at him.

His chequered shirt (dark blue, today. Amy vaguely noticed how good it looked on him) was straighter than before, the buttons done up in the right holes this time, and his hair was less wild, though still slightly curled at the ends. Amy noticed that, this time, he was wearing a pair of plain black hipster-style glasses that actually suited him pretty well.

She managed to tear her eyes away from him when the shorter man beside him tried to get his attention. Amy quickly recognised him as the Brooklyn food blogger, Charles Boyle, who frequented the independent restaurants and coffee shops on a regular basis, constantly on the lookout for something new and extraordinary.

It was through his blog, in fact, that she had originally discovered this place. She had read about it on the blog, _Mouth Feel_ , around a week before she actually visited, at first holding no real intention of trying it out (she wasn’t all that keen on change, and she was honestly fine with the crappy burnt coffee she bought from the run-down place across the street from her apartment. Totally fine).

Then, one day, still reeling from the rejection of an art dealer who “just wasn’t sold” on the pieces she had brought him, she took a walk, not really knowing – or caring – where she was headed.

As luck would have it, just as she was about to look for a street map and navigate her way home, she turned the corner to find the shop, immediately recognising the name and logo from online. She went in and ordered her usual macchiato and a blueberry muffin which she justified as being a pick-me-up, and has been back almost every day since.

(Amy would never admit this to anyone, but she had started paying more attention to and actually enjoyed his blog more since this recent success, finding hidden treasures of restaurants down quiet alleys and in the most unexpected places. For the most part, at least. She was careful to avoid his more… questionable recommendations.)

She wondered, briefly, how this man had come to know Charles. The seemed such different people, particularly compared with how he had looked before. Charles’s pale yellow shirt, tucked neatly into his beige trousers, and combed hair contrasted the taller man, whose shirt, though tidier than it had been, was left untucked, his apparently uncombed hair sat in a tangle of curls on top of his head.

He looked to be around the same age as her, but the way he held himself, the way he grinned widely at something Charles said, the way he didn’t seem to be able to stand still for more than thirty seconds, gave him a certain youthfulness that she found oddly endearing (and more than a little bit attractive).

This, in fact, was one similarity she noticed in the few minutes she had watched them. They both appeared to be filled with an almost childish enthusiasm for the smallest of things, talking cheerfully at the fairly new barista, a closed off-looking girl with dark skin akin to Amy’s, a mop of unruly black hair and an almost permanent scowl on her face.

Amy watched as they picked up their drinks and sat at a table next to the window, looking out onto the bustling street, and began chatting animatedly about something or another.

It was only then that Amy realised how much she had been staring, and immediately refocused her attention on the page in front of her, feeling her cheeks warming as she took a stealthy glance to suss out if anyone had noticed and caught her in the act.

Once she was happy that everyone around her was too busy minding their own business to notice her staring, Amy closed her book, marking the page with her favourite bookmark (the off-white lace one she had been given by her _abuela_ before she passed), and instead opened her sketchbook to a fresh page.

Amy had taken to drawing random things she saw in the shop; she had a sketch of a cupcake she had bought a few weeks ago, and she had a sketch of a large sunhat someone had worn, and numerous hands, but she would never do an entire drawing of one person. She had never felt the urge to, had never felt the need to take down every detail of a person and commit it to her memory.

But with him, it was different.

She found herself starting to draw, as best as she could with numerous heads between her and him, what she could see of his profile; she drew his sloping nose, the glasses perched on top, the mess of hair atop his head. She drew the way his hands clasped loosely around his coffee cup and brought it to his lips and the way the sides of his eyes crinkled when he laughed.

Half an hour later, she had filled her once blank page with… him.

She glanced back up to look for any details she might have missed, when the table of four next to her all decided to leave at once, blocking her view of him.

By the time they had moved from her line of sight, he was gone.

\---

Amy tried not to pay attention the first time he noticed her.

She tried not to pay attention to how, in her peripheral vision, she had seen him visibly stop in his tracks, gaze fixated on her.

Tried not to pay attention to how her cheeks were burning as she fought to suppress a grin and keep her eyes on her book.

Tried not to pay attention when he chose to sit down at a table three away from hers, facing towards her, giving her a full view of the entirety of his face for the first time.

And she honestly tried so hard not to notice the glances he took at her whilst attempting to cover them up with a stretch or a drink from his cup.

\---

Amy had always been a fan of routine.

She liked the stability of routine, of planning, of always having something to do with her time.

She hadn’t managed to retain many friends from college, so a good portion of her time was spent alone. Amy had always been perfectly fine with her own company, enjoyed it even, using the opportunity to immerse herself in a story or in a drawing. She knew, from experience, how the loneliness seemed to take over when she didn’t busy herself with _something_ , particularly in such a busy city.

In the time she had been visiting the shop, Amy had built up a pattern.

At nine o’clock exactly, she would arrive at the coffee shop, order her macchiato and chat to the barista, whose name she had found to be Rosa and who had actually begun answering her attempts at conversation with full sentences, rather than just single syllables.

She would then take her coffee and sit at the table in the corner, take her sketchbook and reading books from her bag (which she would hang from the back of the chair) and set them on the table, stacking them one on top of the other in size order, her sketchbook at the base. She would spend an hour or so reading before switching to drawing; sometimes her surroundings, sometimes snippets from the imaginary worlds she would read of.

Then, at any time between eleven and half past (she got a kick out of guessing at exactly what time), _he_ arrived, ordered his drink and sat at his usual table by the  window, pulled out his laptop and began to write.

Amy would spend half an hour or so sketching him, amongst other things (but mostly him), and packed up her belongings at 11:45 exactly, ensuring she left enough time to get the train to her job at the local library.

Amy had always been a fan of routine, so when she arrived at the coffee shop – five minutes late, it was a rough morning – she was somewhat taken aback to find him already sat in the same place as he had occupied the day before, laptop already open, coffee cup already half empty beside it.

She felt her cheeks flush – in frustration at the absence of her purse, at the gaze she could feel on her? She wasn’t sure – as she dug through her bag for it. As her fingers clasped around it, she held it up triumphantly and ordered her coffee, talking cheerfully with Rosa and laughing at a sarcastic quip she made about a difficult customer she had served yesterday; _tonto_ , Rosa had called him with a roll of her eyes.

Amy had always been a fan of routine, so when she made the last minute decision to sit a table closer to the man with a seemingly endless array of plaid shirts, instead of her usual in the corner, she surprised herself and apparently him, whose eyes she felt on her as she made her way past him and settled in the chair.

Amy had always been a fan of routine, so when, days later, she had finally plucked up the courage to talk to him, only to find him not there, she was lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not AS sold on this as I was the last chapter, because I tried to create some parallels and stuff and I wasn't 100% sure it flowed as well as the last one, so let me know what you think!  
> Also, I'm still not sure where I want this to go, so if you have any suggestions about what happened to Jake, or anything you want to see in this fic, tell me and I'll do my best to make it happen!  
> Thanks for reading, as always you can find me on tumblr as kind-sober-fullydressed  
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> so there it is!  
> Like I said, I'm not sure what I'm doing with this, but i kinda like how it turned out  
> any and all feedback is greatly appreciated, let me know if you want to see more from this story. i have a second chapter written already, from Amy's point of view, which i will post at some point if the response to this chapter is good!  
> as always, you can find me on tumblr, kind-sober-fullydressed, come talk to me about anything!   
> <3


End file.
